Island in the Sun

by Janice Horton

  ‘Darling, I have our new sofas and dining furniture arriving from Grand Cayman any day and Grace and I are busy sewing the curtains for the drawing room.’ I explained. ‘Maybe I’ll come with you next time, sweetheart.’

  Ernest continued to try to persuade me to change my mind as he made love to me long into the night. Then he left in the morning on a boat with a firm promise to return before Christmas.

  Kate’s Journal December 1975

  I miss Ernest terribly. I hate to admit it but life on the island without him can actually be quite boring. When he is here he is always such fun. He makes me laugh. He’s like a teenager sometimes as he’s always suggesting doing silly or outrageous things that I’d never think of doing otherwise, like playing loud music and dancing on the porch or swimming in the sea at midnight or playing strip poker in the study. I’m so looking forward to our first Christmas together.

  Grace and I have started to decorate for Christmas in preparation for Ernest coming home. It feels strange to be having Christmas in the sunshine and heat when in the past, in Yorkshire, it was always so cold and dark at this time of year and we often had snow. Today we sat at the kitchen table under the fan making glittery home-made ornaments and wreaths and we now have a potted palm tree in the hallway dripping with the twinkle lights I ordered from Cayman. We had Carlos, our handy man and gardener, wrap lights around the trunks of the palm trees lining the driveway too. The effect looks so magical that I made a wish. I wished for Ernest’s safe return.

  Last night, on Christmas Eve, my wish came true and Ernest returned home. This morning he has presented me with a beautifully wrapped gift. It is an IBM word processor. It has a small screen that enables the editing of words and a clever tape that records the work for printing out later, using something called a dot matrix printer. It really is an ingenious machine and a world away from my old electric typewriter on which I am supposed to be writing my novel. How very sweet of him to think of it, especially as I hadn’t once mentioned working on my novel since leaving Vegas. I gave him a new fishing rod, handcrafted by a man in the village on Grace’s recommendation. He said he loved it and kissed me so long and hard in front of Grace that he had me blushing.

  Isla realised she was feeling comfortable at last in her cosy cocoon of silk sheets. The room had cooled and was now warm rather than oppressively hot. It was pitch dark outside although the wind had picked up considerably. She could hear the palm trees creaking and thrashing about and a gale whistling through the porch and sincerely hoped that the weather would be improved by morning for her flight off the island. She wasn’t too worried however, because it was often the case in the tropics and with overnight storms, that the wind and rain might sound horrendous battering the old tin roof, but by morning it would result in a bounty of fallen coconuts and blue skies and sunshine again.

  Extending a hand to her wine glass and finding it empty, she picked up a bottle of water instead, and considered how Kate’s new life on the island had seemed so idyllic. Ernest was quite the catch but with Jack now on the scene - and aware that Kate had gone on to have an affair with him – she realised she had knots in her stomach. How could Kate do such a thing when she was deeply in love with Ernest?

  Isla quickly swept away an imagined image in her head of Jack and Kate together.

  The idea of it sickened her, as did Kate’s earlier gushing account of Jack’s ‘gypsy king’ persona.

  She sighed and noticed it was now well into the early hours of the morning. But having decided that she wouldn’t sleep a wink if she didn’t find out the circumstances under which Kate had started the affair with Jack and what might have happened in the time leading up to the fall out and to Ernest’s death, she picked up the next few journals in the pile.

  Unlike the previous handwritten entries, these had been typed up as a manuscript and bound together from printed out sheets of inkjet computer paper. If she was to finish before dawn, she knew she would have to speed read through these to get to the real crux of the story that she had been curious about for so many years. Then, recalling that Grace had once said that Ernest had died five years before Isla was born, she skipped straight to the journals written in the 1980’s

  Kate’s Journal – February 1980

  Ernest has told me he must go away again and once again I have declined to accompany him. We exchanged a few harsh words today as he pleaded with me to go along and I refused. I tried to explain how I feel about leaving but he doesn’t seem to understand.

  ‘Aren’t you getting bored living on this little rock yet, Kate?’ he asked me.

  I insisted I wasn’t while he admitted that if he didn’t leave occasionally he got ‘island fever’.

  ‘But you haven’t stepped a foot off this island for almost five years. The change will do you good. Come on, say you will?’ he pleaded

  I must admit that I was rather taken aback. Had it really been five years? But I told him I was happiest here. How living on a small island in the Caribbean Sea was a dream come true for me. Although, of course, I would miss him terribly until he came back to me.

  ‘You will always come back to me, won’t you Ernest?’ I thought to ask him.

  I’ll admit he looked a little taken aback for a moment by my question but then he kissed me and assured me that he always would come home to me and I needn’t ever worry about that.

  Kate’s Journal March 1980

  It’s March already and Ernest has been away for almost two weeks. I expect he’ll be away for another month yet but I’m quite happy here. On the island, I want for nothing. Ernest has given me carte blanche to order in whatever I need from Grand Cayman. I’m able to get most things shipped over, like books or new office equipment or new fruit trees or tropical flowering shrubs for the garden, furnishings for the house, wines and specialist food items. As long as I’m in no particular hurry, of course, because sometimes things take so long to arrive that I’d quite forget I’d ordered them in the first place. Then it’s like receiving a wonderful surprise gift.

  I’ve noticed that I’m writing in my journal less and less these days because I’m either too busy or not so busy and have nothing to say or simply because one day rolls into the next and I lose track of time. I’ll try to do better if only to record my mood or the weather or what delicious fayre Grace has cooked up for us. She really is wonderful. I don’t know what I’d do without her. Undoubtedly, I’ll have more to say once my darling husband returns from his travels and life picks up once again.

  Kate’s Journal April 1980

  Ernest came back to the island today after almost six weeks away with late birthday gifts of jewellery and gowns for me. The gowns were couture, the jewellery stunning – and not just a necklace or a bracelet or a ring or earrings – but whole sets and collections and suites in diamonds and rubies and emeralds. I laughed and asked him on which red carpet, at which restaurant, at which premiers, that I would ever wear these fabulous silks and satins and lace dresses. I also questioned how he could possibly afford such things?

  ‘In the all-or-nothings in the high-limit rooms. Where men often strip their women of their jewellery and sometimes their clothes, just to stay in the game, and to try to win back everything they’ve lost to me,’ he explained to me, laughing at their foolishness.

  ‘Do you always win at the tables?’ I asked him, as he presented me with the most stunningly beautiful ruby necklace together with a matching pair of earrings and an exquisite cuff bracelet.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘I just need to win back everything I lose. That’s the name of the game I play.’

  I pondered this for a moment. I didn’t understand. ‘Surely, if you only ever win back what you lose, then you haven’t made anything at all.’

  Ernest puffed on his cigar and studied me for a moment, as if he were trying to decide whether or not to tell me something that he’d not told me about himself before.

  I topped up our brandy glasses as a means of encouragement.

&nbs
p; ‘Well, by way of explanation,’ he said, ‘it’s not actually my money I’m gambling.’

  I must have looked at him blankly because he frowned and sucked harder on his cigar.

  ‘Then whose money is it, Ernest?’ I really wanted to know.

  ‘I work for a firm who deposits the money to me in cash. I gamble it away in the casinos and at the end of the night I cash in my chips. If I have lost any of the money, then I must certainly make up the difference myself, but by the same measure, I get to keep all of the gains.’

  I was still confused. ‘They give you money and you give it them back again – the same amount?’

  Ernest shrugged his shoulders and then I suddenly realised the truth after all this time

  The firm is the Mob, and Ernest is a money launderer.

  Chapter Twenty

  Kate’s Journal - June to August 1983

  Ernest continues to leave the island for several weeks at a time, usually to go to Atlantic City, Reno, Vegas, and sometimes to Mexico City. But I’m feeling less anxious when he’s gone because I’ve noticed that when he does come home, he’s progressively staying on the island for longer and longer each time. This pleases me because, although I still love being here on the island, I feel lonely when he is away.

  I continue to spend my time on my hobbies. I love the garden. I love the house. I love the beach and the sea. I love reading lots of books and establishing our home library. I try to add at least something to my journal from time to time and sometimes, and when the mood takes me and when my muse is with me, I work on my novel.

  Life always goes up a notch when Ernest comes home, especially when he brings his friends back with him. Not that he’d invite just any Tom, Dick or Harry to our island. These are special friends with whom I’m always a little star struck: A-lister film stars, beautiful starlets, movie producers, models, artists, and world-famous authors. All interesting and charming company who appreciate the solitude and privacy that the island offers them as even if they wandered down to the village, no one there would know who they were. They say they enjoy the anonymity. Some stay just a few days, some several weeks. We really don’t mind.

  ‘Come and meet my beautiful wife,’ I hear Ernest roar to his posse as I greet them at the dockside. I’m thrilled to see once again those with whom I’d once hung out and interviewed for Rich & Famous, and to meet those in the music industry that needed down time from heavy touring schedules and frenzied fans.

  Not all of Ernest’s friends are artists. Some are bankers and businessmen. Some are innovators from Silicon Valley and some are inventors. Ernest is a highly educated and sociable man and, of course, I’m desperate to keep good company. I was particularly taken by a man called Hemingway, who brought me a delightful kitten from his home in Montana. At dinner tonight, I discovered that this man is the youngest son of the late great writer himself and that the kitten had six toes on its front paws. At last I can show off our library to someone who will appreciate it. I have named the kitten Hemingway.

  What a treat to have the great painter Ranaldini staying with us after his exhibition in Los Angeles. He has insisted on repaying our hospitality by painting my portrait, which is such a great honour and a wonderful excuse for me to dress up in my new ruby red dress and to wear my ruby suite of jewellery when I pose for him.

  When Ernest is home we continue to dress up for dinner. He greets me in Armani on the west facing porch at sundown, where we always take our pre-dinner cocktails, and I wear my beautiful jewellery and match it with my latest gown. Gucci, Lacroix, Chanel, Versace, Dior.…

  Kate’s Journal - Sept to December 1983

  Like me, Grace also enjoys Ernest bringing his friends home, as it means she can be so much more creative in the kitchen, serving up fabulous five course meals. Ernest and his friends, unlike me, always have hearty appetites. When we don’t have guests on the island, Ernest spends a lot of his time out at sea with Jack Fernandez on his fishing boat. Sometimes Ernest will invite Jack over for dinner, but as Jack doesn’t have a wife to keep me entertained, I will often leave the two of them to their cigars and their card games after dinner is over and take myself into the library to find a good book to read.

  But there is actually another reason that I don’t stay around for long in Jack’s company, which I would never mention to Ernest, which is that he troubles me somehow. There is something about the way he looks at me with those black eyes of his that makes me feel strange.

  Also, Jack doesn’t do cheek or air kissing like normal people. He prefers to murmur my name in his strange accent and lift my outstretched hand to his lips for kissing. To me, his lips seemed to linger far too long upon my hand and the brush of his moustache against my fingers always gives me a strange feeling in my tummy. I find him incredibly disturbing.

  However, Ernest really enjoys his company and has said to me that at poker he’d met his match.

  I find that very hard to believe, but then I often heard him roaring when he’d lost another hand to Jack.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Kate’s Journal – January to May 1985

  It’s the start of yet another year on Pearl Island and after a very busy time over Christmas and the new year holiday, when we’d had lots of parties and guests staying over. Ernest has told me that he had to go away for three whole months, as his ‘firm’ had given him an important shipment to process.

  I expressed my disappointment at him having to leave for so long this time.

  Once again he pressed me to go along with him.

  ‘Kate, darling, why don’t you come along this time? I’m off to Hong Kong and Macau – a mecca of gambling and glitz. It’s the Vegas of Asia. It will be amazing. Don’t you realise that you have now been stuck on this island for ten years. You need to come this time. Say you will?’

  Had it really been ten years? I was tempted. I really was. It all sounded so wonderful and so exciting. Now that all our guests had left, I didn’t want to be bored and lonely without him for three months, but the thought of leaving the island absolutely terrified me. I hadn’t realised it before but it was fear that was stopping me. Had I been so busy creating our island home and tending to my garden and working on my hobbies that I had missed some kind of sickness creeping up on me?

  Just the thought of getting on a boat or an aeroplane gave me heart palpitations and cold sweats. I knew for sure that if I tried to leave, I’d surely have one of those terrible attacks again when I couldn’t breathe. When my heart was beating so fast that I thought it might burst.

  I couldn’t bear the thought of people laughing at me as I wet myself or vomited or screamed out in terror because they thought it was nothing – because they thought it was funny.

  Even Ernest. How silly. How embarrassing.

  What had the air stewardess called it all those years ago?

  A panic attack? No, I simply couldn’t risk it.

  It was only then I realised that Ernest was right. I was stuck. So I had absolutely no choice but to stay here on the island.

  With Ernest away, this time I’ll admit to having sank into something of a depression and I can’t help but wonder what will become of me. I fear for my sanity when I realise I have made myself a prisoner of Pearl Island. This afternoon, I went for a walk along the headland to try to clear my head and then I went down onto the beach to sit for a while on the water’s edge.

  Ernest has now been away for almost a month and I feel so terribly lonely.

  The tide was turning and I let the water lap around my skirt. I began to cry. I cried until I felt there were no more tears in me to shed and then I closed my eyes and lay back in the sand and let the water envelop me. I could feel the sun was beating down and burning my face, so I held my breath and let the water wash over me. It felt so wonderfully cool and clean.

  I imagined how wonderful it would feel if it took me down into its watery depths.

  I thought about Ernest as my body was lifted up and taken gently into the arms of the
sea. I floated on the water and gave myself up to weightlessness and free thought. I thought about my mother and about Maggie, and I wondered if they’d thought I’d forgotten about them? I hadn’t of course. It was just easier if I didn’t let myself think about them too often or too much. I was here and they were thousands of miles away. I had made a point of not thinking about them. Perhaps from the moment I’d taken that job at Rich & Famous and moved to London. Except for one phone call from Vegas, just after I’d married Ernest, when she’d asked me what on earth I thought I was doing, I hadn’t spoken to my mother in ten years.

  Water swept in waves over my face and I began to sink. I tried to put my feet down, trying to find sand beneath my feet, or rocks or coral, but there was only deep water. I held my breath as I went under but when I needed to gasp for air, salt water flooded my mouth and my nose and burned the back of my throat. I began to choke. I thrashed about trying to save myself.

  As I’d imagined a peaceful suffocation rather than a violent fight to the death, my eyes sprung open and I began to kick my legs with all my might until I eventually broke the surface.

  What was I doing? Was I completely mad?

  As I gasped for air between the waves breaking over me, I saw someone swimming out to save me.

  It was Jack Fernandez.

  Jack carried me from the water and lay me down on the beach. He turned me onto my side as I threw up foaming water and vomit. He held me tightly as I trembled in his huge arms and then he scooped me up and carried me back to the house.

  I remember Grace being distraught when she saw us.

  ‘Oh Lord, what has happened to Miss Kate?’

  ‘She got caught in a rip tide while swimming,’ Jack explained, placing me gently onto the porch.